from our invincible heights
by egyouppt
Summary: AU: It starts with a funeral—well, it started when Dean's girlfriend threw up on him four years ago—and ends with Cas finally understanding what his relationship with Dean actually means. As much as anything ever really ends for the two of them, anyway.


**Title:** from our invincible heights  
**Rating:** R  
**Genre and/or Pairing:** AU, Dean/Castiel  
**Spoilers:** None except for characters up through season 6  
**Warnings:** death of a minor character and brief non-explicit mentions of past abuse as a child.  
**Word Count:** 10000+  
**Summary:** AU: It starts with a funeral—well, it started when Dean's girlfriend threw up on him four years ago—and ends with Cas finally understanding what his relationship with Dean actually means. As much as anything ever really ends for the two of them, anyway.

**A/N:** As a disclaimer, I still don't own or profit from Supernatural or its affiliates. Title from "and because Love battles" by Pablo Neruda.

* * *

Cas watches from the back porch as Dean and his brother embrace. He shouldn't be here, he thinks, though he knows why Dean asked him to come.

But it feels as if he's encroaching on something intimate and sentimental, which isn't something he has much experience with. He'd never known his mother so had never had get a three AM phone call explaining that she'd died.

Sucking in a breath of the chilly air, he watches Dean's eyes glisten with unshed tears as person upon person offers their condolences. His brother, Sam, stands beside him with his eyes sunken like the whole world collapsed in on him. Cas guesses it probably did.

Dean's the only person Cas has ever been close to—and, by extension, Sam, though he rarely sees the younger Winchester brother anymore. Their father is slumped in a chair, not talking to anyone, a flask dangling from his hand.

It's not that Cas wishes he'd had a normal childhood so he too could watch his loved ones die; he just wishes he could related to people better. He tries, of course; he's not unfeeling, despite what some would accuse of him. Dean had been surprising though, going out of his way to frustrate Cas, to bait him. It had taken him months to realise Dean had been doing it on purpose to prove to others that Cas was just as capable of having emotions as the rest of the world. That had been four years ago and had also been when Cas knew Dean would be the best friend he'd ever have.

That isn't any less true now, but while he _is_ sorry for Dean's loss, he doesn't know how to communicate it sincerely. _I'm sorry_, he thinks, sounds just like _I love you._ They're both true, but they're inadequate and lacking and, in their mediocrity, sound fake and placating. That isn't what he wants.

So he stands outside, jacketless and shivering, watching people he loves and people he doesn't know cry on each other shoulders and talk about how unfair life is.

* * *

Dean catches his eye and Cas knows he's being summoned inside. So he takes a deep breath, crossing the threshold into the Winchesters' family home in Kansas. He's never liked the Midwest, but he's never liked much of anywhere if he's had to stay there too long.

Wiping at his eyes, Dean pulls Cas down the vacated hallway—and there are so many different things in his eyes that Cas has trouble placing them all. "What are you doing?" he hisses.

"I'm standing here talking to you," he answers.

He can tell by the weathered and weary sigh that it isn't what Dean wants to hear. "No, what were you doing standing out there, Cas?" His voice goes low and pleading and Cas feels like all the air's being pressed out of his lungs. "I need you in here."

The admission costs Dean his usually stoic response to feelings he wishes he didn't have, so Cas nods and tries to swallow down the knowledge that he's out of his depths here. He places a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezes gently. Dean nods appreciatively and leads him back into the living room.

He stands next to Dean, stiff and awkward, while Dean explains to an elderly man why they're having calling hours at the house instead of the funeral home. This strikes Cas a particularly rude question, even by his standards of not understanding proper social interaction protocols, and he can tell Dean is angry by the way he grips Cas' forearm.

Dean glances over at him and he can see the _How the fuck does this guy even know my mom?_ in his expression. Cas offers a one-shouldered shrug because he doesn't know either, doesn't know anyone here—mostly—and this will never be his world. It's a small gathering of people, or what Cas assumes to be small given the number of people Dean indicated his mother had known.

_She did work for a lot of local charities and committees,_ Dean had told him. _And she made the best pie in town. Everyone knew her. Everyone loved her. _And then Dean had sat on Cas' couch the whole night until Cas drove them both to the airport so they could make their flight.

He'd only met Mary Winchester a few times while he and Dean were in college—and he'd come home with Dean for a few days during the winter and summer vacations. She'd been pleasant, warm and welcoming, and he'd known upon seeing her that what she had with her sons was something cherished.

Beside him, Dean takes a relieved breath as people start to leave.

He almost asks if Dean will be all right tomorrow—at the funeral—but he knows Dean will scowl and say _Of course I'll be fine, Jesus, Cas_ because that's what everyone expects him to say. Cas—and Sam—would know it's bullshit, but that doesn't matter.

For a guy who's always insisted emotions are what make you human, he sure does a lot of downplaying his own.

Across the room, Mary Winchester's widower, and Dean and Sam's father, takes another swig from his flask.

Dean looks away pointedly.

Cas counts the engravings on the ceiling.

* * *

Later, when Dean asks, "Can you stay here? I know you've got a room in—but, man, I just—"

Cas says, "Of course, Dean." So Dean sets up the sofa for him while Cas makes cocoa for Dean. Sam stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, watching them.

Dean takes the mug from him, nodding his thanks, and Cas makes himself comfortable on the sofa. All the pictures of Mary and her family that were up earlier have been downturned; Dean is looking at them anyway, like he can see through the backs of the frames.

Maybe, for all intents and purposes, he can.

* * *

Sometime during the middle of the night, he gets a call from his sister. He sighs, but answers the phone quietly so as to not wake up the Winchesters.

"Hester," he greets.

"Castiel," she says back.

He sighs again. "I wish you wouldn't call me that."

"Yes, well," she harrumphs. "I wish I had a brother who would pick up the phone and call once in a while."

Which probably means she needs money, of course. He rarely talks to his sister—and even less often since she ran off to Prague with her boyfriend.

"I'll call you back later, Hester," he tells her. "It's the middle of the night."

He can practically see the glower on her face. It's times like these he really wishes he had a sibling relationship like Dean and Sam do; it's hardly perfect, but there's nothing they won't do for each other.

Instead, he gets a sister who periodically calls under the guise of just wanting to talk when she needs cash, and she gets a brother who will give her the money but otherwise avoids all communication with her. One time she'd brought up their father and he'd nearly broken his phone he'd thrown it against the wall so hard. Such outbursts are rare from him, but his father incites in him the worst parts of himself.

"So?" Hester asks. "And why are you whispering?" A pause. "Christ, Castiel, are you—"

"No!" he snaps, rubbing a hand over his forehead. What possesses her to think where he spends his nights his her business anyway he has no idea. "I'm staying at a friend's house. I'll call you later, when I get home, all right?"

"Fine." She hangs up before he can say anything else.

Cas pulls the covers over his head and buries his face in the couch cushion.

_Family,_ Dean had said once, both wistful and mocking. _If they don't drive ya crazy, Cas, they aren't really your family._

But back then they'd been third-year college students and Dean's mother hadn't been dead and—

He falls asleep to a distant memory, the sound of a fish tank whirring in his childhood bedroom and the taste of second-hand smoke.

* * *

When he wakes, Dean is sitting on the arm of the couch looking solemn and small. Castiel doesn't blame him, but he doesn't know what to say.

So he says nothing, and Dean says nothing, and he excuses himself to wander to the back porch again. Lighting a cigarette, he stares at the mostly leafless trees, lets the early morning light warm his face.

"You know," Dean says as he walks out, letting the door close quietly behind him. He takes the cigarette from Cas' hand and stubs it out on the railing, tosses it across the yard into the fire pit. Cas turns to look at his friend. "My mom used to cut my hair on this porch," Dean says. "When I was a kid. I always hated it, but every second Saturday in the summer, she'd take her stupid purple scissors to my hair and then we'd get ice cream."

He chokes on his words and leans forward, hands gripping the railing tightly enough to turn his knuckles white.

"Dean," he says, because there's nothing else to say.

His friend straightens, schools himself and Cas hates himself for the change—for a lot of things, really, but who doesn't?

"Come get breakfast," Dean tells him. "It'll be a long day."

Cas knows what he really means is _I don't know if I can bear it._

He follows Dean inside.

* * *

The procession is beautiful in the autumn wind and Cas watches as Dean and his family pretend this will ever get easier.

He sticks his hands in the pockets of his suit coat in hope that it will make them stop shaking.

It doesn't.

He wonders if Hester will come to his funeral, or if he'll go to hers—however it works out. Dean grips Sam's hand as the pastor goes on and on about the virtues of Mary Winchester.

_You're right,_ says the expression on Dean's face,_ but you never knew her—not like I did._

Cas kicks at the grass with the toe of his shiny dress shoe.

* * *

"Dean," Cas is saying gently—later, after the funeral and after people had come and gone from having coffee at the Winchesters' home. It's a custom that Cas has never understood; people will, apparently, use anything as an excuse to socialize, even dead friends. Maybe even especially dead friends.

Dean looks up at Cas from where he's lying on the couch, surly and miserable. "If you want to take time off work—if you want to stay here for a while, no one is going to—"

"I'll be fine, Cas," Dean says, in a way they both know it means he won't be.

There's moment of silence that lapses into minutes that lapse into an hour or so. Cas is still sitting on the edge of an ottoman a few feet away from Dean, and Dean is still curled in on himself, not dealing and not moving.

Sam cleans the strings of Mary's viola.

Their father is nowhere to be found. Sam sighs to himself, nods to Cas, and then turns his watery eyes away.

Cas watches as the youngest Winchester moves up the stairs like it's taking all the energy he has.

Finally, Dean speaks again. His voice is muffled by the pillow and by the lump that must be in his throat, but he says, "Do you ever think you're lucky, Cas?"

"In what manner?"

Dean just shakes his head and changes the topic. "Did you get into Northwestern?" he asks, as if they're sitting on the balcony of Dean's apartment back in Massachusetts on a Sunday afternoon.

Yes. But, "I don't know," he says, not allowing Dean to distract him. "You don't have to do this, Dean."

"I'm not doing anything." Dean sounds defensive and petulant and if he weren't inwardly drowning, Cas would tell him to stop being a three year old.

"That's the entire point. You've always said—"

But Dean interrupts, "Don't. Just don't. You don't know what it's like and you'll never know what it's like and nothing you say will make me feel better."

Cas frowns, forcing himself to brush away the sting of Dean's words. "I'm not trying to make you feel better, Dean," he says evenly.

Dean sits up, laughs humorlessly. "Oh, well that's just great, isn't it? You know," he says as he stands up, taking a quilted blanket with him. "Sometimes I wonder how we're even friends."

He stomps away and out of the house, slamming the door behind him—but it's with the hesitant, barely noticeable click that always means Dean doesn't really want to leave, but he needs the space and separation, the illusion of being in control.

Cas blinks his eyes closed. He knows Dean doesn't mean the things he says when he gets like this—or he mostly doesn't mean them. So he'll forgive Dean the words and the feelings they've brought.

Really, he thinks half self-deprecatingly, he'll forgive Dean anything.

* * *

Sam glances at them tensely the next morning, presumably having overheard their argument. Cas assures him everything's fine as Dean gathers his suitcase and packs it into his father's truck.

"Are you sure?" Sam asks.

Cas shrugs a little. "It's not the first argument we've had—and it's not even the worst. I won't hang it over his head." The only person Cas really holds any grudges against is his father; he's the only person who deserves it.

Sam drives them to the airport; no one says anything, and the quiet hum of soft rock from the speakers lulls Cas into an exhausted sleep.

"I'll call you," Sam says to Dean while Cas stands off to the side, out of their way.

"Take care, Sammy." Dean gives his brother a one-armed hug, all lackluster bravado, and Cas turns away.

When Dean makes his way over to Cas, he says, "Let's go." And it's short and simple and all the things their friendship isn't.

The plane ride is silent.

* * *

It's four in the morning and Cas is tired to his bones, but there's a knock on the door and he knows it's Dean immediately.

So he rubs away the sleep from his eyes and opens the door, allowing Dean to come rushing in, drenched from the rain.

"Cas," he says. "I didn't mean—"

"I know." And he does, so he leads Dean to the living room, and he doesn't care what Dean's wet clothes will do to the upholstery of his sofa. "I should have said—" He licks his lips and takes a breath, sitting down next to Dean.

"What I meant," he explains, "is that my goal wasn't to make you feel better because there's no reason to feel better. I know my family…isn't like yours, and so I don't know firsthand what you're experiencing." He ignores the flash of guilt on Dean's face. "But I only meant it's okay for you to not be okay and to not know how to deal with things. You've always told me that emotions—even the horrible, awful, soul-destroying ones—are important and I didn't have to pretend to not have them, or let people say that I didn't just because I didn't know what to do with them. I was only going to tell you the same."

Dean looks at him, really looks at him, in the half-light of Cas' crummy living room lamp, and there's something in his face that Cas can't decipher. So he keeps talking. "Your loss is monumental, and you don't owe anyone—least of all me—stoicism, or the illusion that you've got it all together."

Dean falls back against the couch, his eyes squeezed shut. When he opens them, he exhales a slow, shaky breath. "Shit," he swears. "Jesus. _Fuck._" Cas watches as Dean tries to collect his thoughts. "I'm sorry," he says, and it's something doesn't say a lot. He might tell you he was wrong, but he rarely can force out the apology. Cas is grateful for it. "I'm just…yeah, I'm messed up," he admits. "I shouldn't have said…what I did. It was a dick move, and even though you're a fucking weirdo who doesn't understand pop culture, you've been a friend to me, Cas. A way better friend than I deserve."

It's moments like these that let Cas know they'll always be always okay. _If they don't drive ya crazy, Cas, they aren't really your family. _

And he knows Dean is his family and so much more, a lot more than he could ever really describe. "Well," he says. "It's a good thing relationships don't work like that. It's not about what you do or don't deserve. It's about how we're friends, and there's nothing I can think of that would change it."

Dean smiles, small and genuine—just a tilt up at the corners of his mouth, but Cas feels it down to the depths of his soul. It warms him, and he says, "You can stay here for the night. But I'll get you some dry clothes. You're not ruining another comforter of mine."

There's a watery chuckle from Dean and Cas hopes Mary had known what a fine man her eldest son had turned out to be.

He suspects she did.

* * *

Things don't _return to normal_ as one might say. Or rather, they don't stay static. Cas' relationship with Dean has been one that is ever-progressing. They don't stop annoying each other, but they never stop being friends—and they never stop being better and better friends.

He manages to convince Dean to take a couple weeks off of work. He spends most of it lounging around his apartment in his underwear and watching Western movies that Cas despises, but he doesn't say anything about it.

He just brings dinner over for Dean and they talk about anything that isn't family.

One night he takes Dean swimming in the pool at the health club his boss' wife owns. "Zach just lets you use his wife's club?" Dean asks.

"Ah." Cas clears his throat. "_Let_ might be a bit on the polite side." Dean gives him an conspiratorial grin—the first of any such gesture Cas has seen in weeks, understandably—and he smiles back. "We're not hurting anything or anyone," he assures Dean.

He sits on a lounge chair watching while Dean splashes around in the water. "You don't wanna come in?" He sounds like he wants to press, to insist, but he doesn't and Cas doubts Dean will ever understand how grateful he is for that.

He hasn't been able to bring himself to swim since—he shakes his head. "No, thanks," he says. "I'm fine."

Dean shrugs and drops himself under the water. Castiel dips a hand in near the edge. When he lifts it up, he watches the drops of water travel the lines of his palms.

Dean watches him silently.

* * *

"Sam called today," Dean tells him. He's just gotten out of work and has agreed to meet Dean at the pizza joint they're both more or less fond of.

Cas indicates with his hand for Dean to continue. "He's back in California. I guess he's okay, all things considered." He says it sadly, like he wishes his brother were here now. It's very likely he does, Cas thinks.

"Knowing Sam, he'll be okay," he offers. It's not a platitude; Dean knows that. Cas is almost as bad at platitudes as he is at lying. Sam is sentimental and a bit like a raggedy puppy, but he's resilient. Dean gives him a half-smile before biting into his pizza.

Dean despairs of Cas because he always peels the cheese off the pizza—it makes him feel heavy and greasy and he doesn't like it—but doesn't complain too much because he gets Cas' extra cheese anyway. He picks it up with his fingers, shoving it into his mouth ungracefully, and Cas holds back a soft laugh.

He rolls his eyes as Dean flirts with the waiter—and with the woman a couple tables down who keeps staring at them. But he knows Dean does it because it's what he'd be doing if things were fine, if he didn't still stay awake half the night thinking about drunk drivers and how they run over your mom.

He knows it takes all of Dean's energy to go on day to day, to not just break down at any given moment—and Cas can relate. _Life doesn't stop,_ everything about Dean these days seems to scream, _just because you want it to._

No, Cas thinks. Nothing really seems to do what you want it to. Most things—and people—never seem to do much of anything, really. It always makes him laugh at people who think there's any way to find the _meaning of life._

_I don't think there really is a meaning,_ Dean had told him once. They'd been in their shared apartment senior year of undergraduate college. Cas had been more than a little high and Dean more than a little drunk. _People always goin' on and on about how there's some bigger picture and shit. But this is all there is. There's beer and friends and finals, just stuff and whatever meaning you wanna give to it or not give to it._ He'd shrugged and in his altered mental state, Cas had thought Dean was the most beautiful, most inspiring person in the whole world.

He'd also spent an hour watching phosphorescent fish swim in the walls.

Still, he thinks now, Dean was probably right back then. He takes a sip of his water, washing away the taste of garlic and tomato sauce.

Dean is one of the few things that give his life any meaning at all.

* * *

He accepts the MPH/PHD offer from Northwestern.

"Castiel, what are you going to do with a degree in medical anthropology?" his sister asks when he mentions it during their next phone call.

"I'm going to be a medical anthropologist," he answers snidely, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "And don't _call_ me that."

He doesn't know why Hester insists on calling him by his full name; he hates it, he's always hated it, and the only way he could ever escape his father was to leave that awful name behind.

"It just doesn't seem lucrative," she says.

"No one tried to convince you out of your comparative literature degree." He's tired and he needs to tell Dean and—he sighs, shaky and unbidden. Normally, Dean would be the first person he'd tell. But it means he'll be moving halfway across the country again and he tends to avoid things that will strain his relationship with Dean for as long as possible.

"Just try not to get yourself into too much debt, little brother," she tells him. It's rich and ironic coming from her—and she must know that, which is most likely why she says it.

"Yes," he says, "I'll try."

He spends a lot of time having conversations in head but the fact is, he can't guess how Dean will react. There are times when Dean just surprises the hell out of him, takes away his breath and his inhibitions, and Cas doesn't know what to do with those moments besides hoard them covetously.

He lights cigarette after cigarette, though he only ends up smoking one of them. Dean's always hated it, and he knows it. And he keeps saying _I'll quit_ but he means it in the same way people mean it when say it doesn't matter after they get their insides ripped out and stomped on.

He walks to the corner store for another pack.

And another.

* * *

"I don't know what to say," is what Dean says when Cas tells him.

They're sitting in his living room after Cas freaked himself out and had invited Dean over. _Your whole apartment smells like cigarettes, dude,_ he'd said as soon as he'd walked in.

Cas stares at him because there's nothing else he can do. There's no condescending remark about what a useless degree he's working towards, but there's no _Hey, dude! That's awesome_ either. And Cas can only be glad that he hadn't known what to expect, so he hadn't expected anything.

Because he probably would have been disappointed, he thinks.

"Well," he amends. "Congratulations, I guess."

Cas gives him another blank look, sliding further away from him on the sofa. "You guess?"

"Whaddya want me to say?" Dean counters. "I'm glad you're going hundreds of miles away to be with your other smart grad school friends? Look," he says after a minute, after catching the crestfallen look Cas is sure he hadn't been able to keep off his face. "It's good for you, it really is. I just—this isn't what I was expecting."

"What were you expecting?" Cas asks finally, careful and measured.

Dean looks embarrassed and Cas swears he sees the faintest flush creep up Dean's neck to his ears. "Nothing," he mutters. "Back in the Midwest," he says after a minute. "You hate the Midwest."

It's true. Cas arches a brow. "I hate a lot of things." Also true. Coffee, swimming pools, the smell of bleach, smooth peanut butter, the smell of rain, highway traffic, the frown that takes over Dean's mouth when someone implies that he's stupid, talking to his family, Dean's 1967 Impala, horses, the way Dean is looking at him right now.

Dean snorts. "That's true. But I know you, Cas. You're not the antisocial aloof dickwad you like to pretend you are. There are a lotta things you like, too."

"Yes." That's also true. Bob Dylan, felt tip markers, hamburgers, rare and obscure books, bicycles, bees, the way Dean's eyes get a little cloudy when he's uncomfortable—like the time Sam's girlfriend assumed he and Cas were a couple and Cas spent a great deal of time laughing—applesauce, the idea of a family that looks after each other, Scrabble.

Finally, Dean just laughs—it's quiet and sort of scratchy, but he slings an arm around Cas' shoulder and declares, "You're movin' up in the world, buddy. We oughtta celebrate."

Cas smiles despite himself, but insists, "That's not necessary, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, dragging Cas up off the couch with him. "Life would be boring if we all just did what was necessary. Let me do this for you," he adds softly, after a pause that Cas thinks borders on tense and uncomfortable. "I'm not gonna get you drunk and put the pictures up on Facebook," he promises.

Cas gets it: the implicit _You helped me; let me help you. Friends take care of each other._ He's not sure why needs taking care of, but if it will make Dean feel better, he'll go along with it. "Okay."

Dean grins and it's a good thing—another thing he loves—because finally some of the ever-present sadness that's hovered in the green of his eyes is starting to slowly fade away.

He still has a few months before he moves.

He'll use it, he thinks, to try to figure out what it was Dean was looking for when he came over this evening.

* * *

"Sometimes," Dean says, sitting back on his hands. The grass is wet beneath them, but Cas doesn't mind—it's fresh and cool and the night air sits weightless in his lungs. "I think you're gonna tell me stuff. But you never do." He frowns. "I mean, I don't mind either way. And I'm not looking for sleepovers and a teary watch of _Steel Magnolias_ or some shit."

He shrugs and Cas watches the shadows of his movements in the darkness. The moon is half-full and Dean is warm next to him. "I don't understand," he says.

"Yeah." Dean lets out a breath and Cas watches as Dean puts his fingers to his lips, considering. In typical Dean fashion, he changes the subject. "I'm gonna use all my free time to visit you, I hope you know. You better stock my favorite beer. And for fuck's sake," he says, and Cas can hear in his voice the way he's grinning, "don't forget to order cable."

A laugh escapes Cas' throat. "I'll order the package without sports channels," he says gravely.

"I'll put itching powder in your shampoo." Dean nudges his shoulder and Cas looks up at the sky.

The stars are bright and aimless—they're not so different from people in that regard. He watches them and Dean watches him and everything feels hazy, underwater and muted and Cas smiles into the half-light because no, life doesn't stop, but that doesn't mean it's always crushing, always taking everything away from you.

Of course Dean ruins the moment by saying, "This is like the part where Timon and Pumbaa and Simba have a soul-baring session under the stars. You're turning me into a warthog, Cas."

"You manage well enough on your own," Cas says, radiating amusement.

Dean grumbles something about itching powder that Cas ignores in favor of sliding his fingers through the grass, slippery with dew.

It's much better than Dean's usual celebration methods, he concludes.

He guesses Dean really is happy for him, after all.

* * *

He's never realized before how much stuff he actually owns; how much he'd brought with him and how much he'd accumulated in the two years since he'd graduated.

He has a stack of pictures of him and Dean and some of their acquaintances; he places it in the pile of things to keep.

Cas figures there's a lot he probably could—probably should—throw out, but that seems like something people do when they're _looking for a fresh start_—like Hester had been when she'd left the country.

It's not what he's doing, not this time. Not since he'd left his home in Oklahoma to go to college and his father had told him to never come back.

And he never had—except the one time he knew his father was away in Mississippi for the weekend and he'd brought Dean back. It's a strange thing, really, how much people change without even realizing that's what they've done.

It seems so natural, so fitting, as you're going along. But when he thinks of himself at eighteen, at twenty, at twenty-two, he almost wants to laugh. Maybe he's not so fundamentally different in some ways; he still has a tendency to be sharp and honest because he doesn't understand the point of acting under a pretense. And he still thinks people's lives would be a lot less stressful if they were more direct about what it is they want and expect of other people. But now he knows that most people don't work that way, and he's learned to work around it. Dean's been a key player in a lot of it.

He's glad that Dean's girlfriend at the time had barfed on him coming up the stairs during their second year.

It's still gross to think about, of course, and he hopes it never happens again.

But Dean's been worth the fortune in dry-cleaning—and all the hang-ups they've had since.

He comes across a stretch of ugly knitted blanket that he remembers clutching as he hid behind the sofa while the house burned down and his dad tried to piss it out.

He tosses it away.

* * *

Sam calls him one day. "Hey, Cas," he says when Cas accepts the call.

"Sam." He drags a towel over his still-wet hair, slipping on his shoes. "Is everything all right?"

He can hear Sam's lips purse. "I don't know. I can't—I can't get a hold of Dean. And he's probably fine, well—he's probably sulking, but I just wanted to make sure."

"I'll check," he promises Sam. "But—" He stops because he's not sure it's appropriate to ask what Dean would be sulking about. He's been through a lot recently and Cas would never begrudge him the time he needs to heal.

"Why would he be sulking?" Sam guesses. He snorts and Cas picks up on the slightly fond but still mocking tone of it. "His mom died and his best friend is moving away, Cas. He's not exactly up for throwing a parade at the moment. Just make sure he's not too outta sorts, okay?"

"Yes, of course," he says and Sam hangs up.

Suddenly he feels incredibly selfish because Dean has been side-stepping his own hurt for Cas' benefit. And Dean should know by now he doesn't have to do that, just as Cas knows Dean will do it anyway because that's who he is.

He picks up a six pack of Dean's favorite root beer on the drive to Dean's apartment.

He stops again to get Dean a slice of pie from his favorite diner.

Very little rivals Dean's love of pie.

* * *

He forgoes knocking because he'd find a way in regardless of whether or not Dean answered the door. It's not locked, which means Dean is home—so he opens the door quietly, setting the pie and soda on the counter when he walks by it.

The bedroom door is shut—and this one Cas does knock on, and when Dean answers with a grunt, he pushes the door open. Dean is lying face down on his bed, and he's listening to country music.

That's never a good sign. Dean only listens to country music when he's upset and—as Sam said—sulking—"because country music is written for people in pain by people in pain, Cas."

Dean doesn't look at him, doesn't do much of anything. The bed dips when Cas sits beside him and he wonders if Dean is asleep. He's about to place a hand on the bare skin of Dean's shoulder when the man in question flops over. "What're you doing here?" he asks, though not unkindly.

"Sam was worried," he says. Then sighs because that's the coward's way out, even if it's part of the truth. "And," he adds, "so was I. Dean," he says, "I'm sorry."

Sitting up, Dean runs his hands through his hair—tiredly, Cas notices. And he wonders if Dean has been sleeping okay and he curses himself for not noticing before. Generally speaking, Cas has a knack for picking up on when Dean is pretending everything is fine. That he hasn't means Dean's gone above and beyond to hide it from him—which means, and Castiel doesn't want to be presumptuous but—it means it's likely Dean's foul mood does indeed involve him.

"For what?" Dean asks eventually, resignedly.

"For—" He pauses because he doesn't know how to say _for everything _without sounding like an asshole, like he's just saying it because it's what they say in movies with happy endings. "You've been nothing but supportive of me and you're the only thing here that really matters to me. I'm not particularly fond of New England either, but there's nothing I hate more than I care about you. And I've done a poor job of showing that recently and I'm sorry."

Dean is staring at him in a way that's weighted and palpable—something he might have to carefully analyze later. He locks the look away in his memory as it clears from Dean's face. He sighs. "Aw, Cas." He leans back against the headboard. "You don't have to be sorry. It's just a shitty situation. One of us would have left sooner or later anyway."

Cas cocks his head and scoots further onto the bed, lifting his feet onto the mattress. "Are there things you want to know?" he asks quietly. "I keep thinking about things you say—there are things you're expecting, things you think I'm going to tell you, that sort of thing. You can ask. If there's something—if there's anything I can do or say to make you feel like we're on equal footing, then it's my job as your friend to do it."

He's aware that he has a habit of sounding dramatic; it's something Dean teases him about occasionally. He doesn't now, though. He just looks thoughtful. There's a crease on the side of his neck from where he was laying against the pillow and a patch of stubble on the underside of his jaw that he must have missed shaving this morning. None of these are the life-altering kind of details that people tell you to pay attention to, but Cas always remembers things in his own way. And he likes to think he'll remember Dean this way—soft and pensive and pale in the low light—for some time to come.

"You don't have to," Dean says.

"I know." Cas lifts his eyes to the ceiling. "Which is why I will."

Dean's teeth catch his bottom lip as he smiles and Cas thinks Dean's smile will be one of the things he misses most when he leaves. "Tell me whatever you want, Cas," he says. "S'your story t' tell."

He thinks about it for a while—seconds or minutes, he doesn't know; it doesn't matter, he feels suspended in time, spread across galaxies—and rubs his palms on the thighs of his jeans. "My sister—I know you haven't met her," he says. "I don't think you'd like her much anyway. It was just me and her growing up with my father. He was—"

Language, Cas thinks, is so limiting, so definite. He wants the infinity he feels in his mind, to press his thoughts to Dean in a way that conveys all the things he wants to say. "He was cruel," Cas decides on. "He always equated _Castiel_ to the worst of everything. I never loved my name, but he made me despise it, made me despise everything. A lot of the time, he was subtle about it." A quick jab here, a barb there, burying themselves beneath Cas' skin until he couldn't stand to look in the mirror or hear his own voice.

It was sitting and watching as Cas nearly drowned in the apartment complex swimming pool when some kid from his school pushed him in. He hadn't known how to swim very well and his father had just watched and watched, looking so _disappointed_, and the water had taken over everything and he'd screamed and—

His breath sounds heavy even to his own ears. "My sister dropped out of school and left the country when she was sixteen. I thought about going with her, but I wanted to finish school and go to college. I worked really hard," he tells Dean. "To get scholarships so I could get away and into a good school. When my dad found out, he told me to leave and not come back, that I was lucky to have stayed under his roof for this long."

Dean is looking at him again, in that puzzling, leaden way, and Cas still doesn't know what to make of it. "Sam and dad had a sort of similar argument," he offers. He frowns. "Mostly because they just like to fight about everything—even when they agree with each other." He looks apologetic, like he knows it's an unfit comparison and is sorry for bringing it up.

Cas doesn't mind too much, though, because it's better than pity. He's always found pity to be the most condescending of emotions and he hates it. He didn't enjoy a lot of his childhood, but he'd gotten out and he's here now—with Dean—and he can be proud of where he's at. "Your father loves you two very much," he agrees.

"Yeah."

"I don't know what to say," Cas says. "I'm sure you're not looking for specific stories…" He glances over at Dean, who shakes his head. "Mostly," he goes on. "I try not to think about it. I go by Cas because it's the one thing my father never called me and I barely talk to my sister—and when we do talk, it's mostly awful," he admits. He shrugs.

Neither of them say anything for a while, which suits Cas fine because he's not sure what's left to say. Eventually, though, he has to tell Dean, "I brought pie."

"Dude." Dean looks at him with his serious _it's pie or the end of the world_ face. "Why didn't you start with that? I could have been weeping into a slice of heaven this whole time." He climbs off the bed, pulling a shirt over his head, and Cas makes his way into the kitchen.

They make plans for things they'll do together in Illinois and when Cas comes back to visit while they eat pie and drink root beer. Dean glowers half-heartedly at the lack of alcohol and Cas wonders at the pressure building behind his ribcage.

He even remembers to text Sam and let him know everything's fine, everything's great, and he should have no problem calling Dean now.

Dean falls asleep at the kitchen table, his head half on the plate of pie crumbs.

He sends the picture to Sam and Dean punches him lightly in the arm the next day for it.

Cas laughs—and Dean laughs too, and in that moment it feels like the whole world is laughing with them.

* * *

His boss wishes him (mostly) good luck in the smarmy, patronizing way he says everything.

Cas thanks him anyway and carries away his box of personal belongings.

* * *

Dean helps him load his car and drives him to the airport, muttering about how airplanes are evil and he's glad he doesn't have to be on one again.

Most of his stuff will be sent to his new apartment later on, and that's when it really hits him. He's really leaving and he's really going to work on getting a doctorate—and he's really going to be so far from Dean.

Before he leaves for the security gate, he says quietly to Dean, "I hope you know—your mother, she would have been proud to call you her son. She was," he amends.

He hadn't needed to know her well to know that. He just hopes Dean realizes it.

Dean's lips curve slightly, and he even hugs Cas—which is unexpected. Cas flails for a second before returning the embrace awkwardly, but genuinely. "Don't talk to strangers, Cas," Dean says.

Cas gives him a withering look, but Dean just chuckles. "I'm serious. They're not used to your deep authoritative voice and brutal honesty. You'll piss 'em off and they'll punch you. Then there'll be a riot and the plane will crash and I'll be the one who has to mop up Sam's giant girly tears."

"Of course," he says drily. "I'll do my best to remember that."

"Yeah, yeah. Go on. 'F'you miss your flight, I'm not payin' for your new tickets."

Cas doesn't mention the way Dean's eyes are slightly watery—he suspects his own might be too. It makes the whole thing seem…movie-esque, but his relationship with Dean is solid enough, he thinks, to stand up to some of the clichés.

The plane feels empty without Dean on it.

* * *

He's swamped with work and writing, but he makes time to stay in touch with Dean a few times a week. He even calls his sister once.

"Are you staying out of trouble, Castiel?" she asks.

"Don't call me that," he says for the eight millionth time. Really, he should stop lending her money to show her how serious he is.

"You should come to Prague," she says.

He drops the phone. When he has it placed to his ear again, he stutters. "Wh—I—what? Why?"

There's a pause that Cas thinks functions as a shrug. "Just think about it. I'll call you," Hester says.

Cas drops his phone onto the counter, feeling numb and worn out and like he's been filled with mercury, hot and silvery.

The thing is, though—

He thinks about it.

* * *

He tells Dean about his new roommate on the phone one evening.

"His name is seriously Balthazar?" Dean sounds incredulous and Cas laughs.

"It is," he confirms. "But he's all right. A bit brash, but all right."

He can sense Dean rolling his eyes even over the phone. "You sound like a dick when you say things like that. _Brash._ I bet this is _Balthazar's_ fault."

"And you say I'm the one partial to dramatics," he says wryly.

"Still hate the Midwest?" Dean asks at some point.

Cas shoves his feet under the blankets. "Yes," he says, and Dean snorts out a laugh. "But I also still like hamburgers."

Dean mutters something about hippies and tofu and Cas has no idea what he's talking about. But he's content to listen to Dean chatter on about this and that, though he misses—acutely and constantly—being in Dean's presence. Even just the weight and warmth of him when he stands next to Cas.

They talk for a long time that night.

* * *

The first time Dean comes to visit him—_I managed to get a few days off. Clear your schedule_—things don't go as planned.

Dean pounds on his door and he looks rushed, out of breath, when Cas lets him in. "Dean—" he starts.

But Dean is already talking. "Cas, I need—"

And the next thing Cas knows, he's being pressed toward the wall and Dean's hands are in his hair and Dean's mouth is descending on his and—oh. _Oh._ Dean's lips are warm and insistent on his and there doesn't seem to be a good reason to not kiss back—so he does and Dean's breathing picks up, splaying across his mouth.

Dean pulls away, resting his forehead in the crook between Cas' neck and shoulder.

"That was unexpected," Cas says, and oh, he really shouldn't have. Dean backs away like he's been burned, like every belief he's ever held has been turned inside out. "What—"

He stares at Cas. "You weren't—you didn't—" He doesn't seem to be able to collect his thoughts and put them into words.

So Cas tries his best to do it for him. "I've never considered it something you were likely to do." He touches his fingers to his lips. He means for his words to reassure Dean, but it only seems to make things worse.

"I always thought—I mean, I just always thought you _knew_ that—" He looks tense and ready to bolt out the door and this is not what Cas wanted at all. "Jesus," Dean mutters to himself. "I thought it was a thing between both of us, I really did. So many times I thought, _Wow_, the way Cas is looking at me right now, I bet he's going to kiss me. I thought—" He stops and he sounds wrecked and it feels like the sun has gone out.

He gently grips Dean's wrists, murmurs, "Dean." Dean tries to steady his breathing, but he still won't look at Cas. "Just because I never thought about it—"—which isn't entirely true. He'd thought about it fleetingly, the way you imagine what it would be like to be in a different relationship with people you know than the one you're already in—"doesn't mean I'm at opposed to exploring the possibilities."

Dean looks at him then. "Jesus," he says again. "Please tell me I'm dreaming. This is a nightmare and I didn't just kiss you and I'm gonna wake up any second now."

"Dean." This time he says it more firmly. "It was pleasant," he says.

Dean falls back onto the couch, bringing Cas with him from where he's still holding on to Dean's wrists. "Pleasant," he repeats. "Wow. You know," he says, "that night you invited me over to tell me you were leavin,' I thought—man, I dunno. I thought you were gonna ask me out or tell me you're in love with me or something. And I was gonna say yes, I mean, I was really gonna say yes. But then nothing kept happening, so I thought you were just waitin' for me to—make the first move, I guess. And now I just—this is really messed up," he settles on.

Cas licks his lips, reaching up to cup Dean's jaw and turn his face towards Cas'. "I didn't know," he confesses. "I didn't know how you feel. I could never quite decipher it. So it was never something I thought about because it never seemed like something I would have to think about. My relationship with you is the only one of import to me. I wasn't just trying to placate you when I said I wasn't averse to exploring different and new facets of our relationship. There isn't a way in which I don't love you, Dean," he says.

"Jesus," Dean says for the third time, but this time it's low, reverent. "Cas," he says. "You're sure?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I weren't," he says.

Dean sags against him. "Of course you wouldn't." He sounds fond, relieved, and Cas brushes his fingers over the nape of Dean's neck. He can feel the shiver that runs down Dean's spine, so he does it again. "Is anything for us gonna be normal?" he asks.

"I doubt it." Cas looks at him knowingly. "Would you want it to be?"

"Hell no. Wouldn't be us if it weren't," he concedes. This time when Dean looks at him, Cas knows what it means—the tension, the uncertainty, the _wanting._ It makes sense, now that Cas thinks about it. And now that he _is_ thinking about it, he can see himself wanting too, can think of all the ways he and Dean fit together and it feels—right, he supposes. As much as anything ever can.

So he leans forward again and this time when Dean kisses him, it's expected and messy and he can't help the hitch in his breath when Dean's tongue brushes the roof of his mouth.

It's the best kiss Cas has ever had—because it's Dean and Dean is the best of everything he's ever had.

He pulls Dean forward, closer, and Dean comes willingly, hands mapping the lines of Cas' body through his clothes.

Yes, he thinks, he really should have known.

* * *

They try to go on a date. _We should do this the right way, Cas—or try, anyway. Who fuckin' knows what'll actually happen._

Cas agrees because while he doesn't find it necessary, he doesn't see the harm in it either.

But it's sunny when they leave, so they decide to walk. Which is—that's date-like and romantic, Castiel thinks. He's not well-versed in romance. His relationships have always had a tendency to be mostly sexual because he could never fill up the space of what the other person needed. And then once he'd befriended Dean, it had been unnecessary because he'd never been able to envision that he could put a romantic partner on even equal standing with Dean.

But halfway through the film—which is awful, they both agree, so they leave—it starts to rain and for some reason Dean refuses to get a taxi.

So they walk and they're soaked and miserable because rain is another thing Cas hates. But Dean grips his hand, their fingers entwined, so Cas forgets about it momentarily. Or for the whole way back. Because Dean's hand is warm and rough, calloused—and Cas thinks it's maybe the best thing he's ever felt.

Except for maybe kissing Dean.

He quite enjoys that as well.

* * *

"Maybe we should just give up and go straight to the sex," Dean jokes as he sheds his coat.

"I could get behind that," Cas says—and he's _not _joking.

Dean chokes, trips over nothing, and catches himself on the wall. If his voice is slightly higher-pitched when he next speaks, neither of them mention it. "Oh god, really?" He blinks. "Am I dreaming again?"

Cas looks at him in surprise. "You have sex dreams about me?"

Dean's head bangs against the wall. "You did not just ask that, dude. You really didn't."

"I didn't," he says agreeably, in the hope it will lead to less clothing and more of them making good on Dean's idea of having sex.

Dean laughs and laughs and Cas can't even begin to guess what it is that's so amusing. He tugs on Cas' hand, though, and soon enough, he's being thoroughly kissed and there are wet, desperate sounds coming from the back of his throat and Dean is panting wildly against his neck.

"Yeah, okay," Dean says. "I'm good with sex. I really am." He kisses Cas again but is only moderately successful as Cas has already started leading Dean into the bedroom.

His bedroom is smaller here than it had been in Massachusetts, but the bed fits in it and that's the only thing that matters. He manages to kick his shoes and socks off and watch Dean strip out of his shirt at the same time. The air is dense with their years together and the potentials and possibilities and—he gives up on his clothes for the time being as he and Dean fall to the bed.

Dean pulls Cas on top of him, takes his weight easily, and mouths at his jaw, his neck, the line of his collar. He works at the button of Dean's jeans, slides them past his hips as Dean fights with the shirt Cas is still (for some reason) wearing.

Finally, his shirt is off and Dean's pants are off and there's skin and friction and harsh, shallow breathing as he slides against Dean, unable to keep from kissing him again. There's too much tongue and too much teeth, or maybe he just thinks there is because nothing has ever felt this intense and overwhelming, this overpowering, before. He catches Dean's bottom lip between his teeth, Dean's hands slipping up the small of his back.

Dean is a contrast of hard and soft, pliant, underneath him as he pushes Cas' pants away.

There aren't words, just heavy breaths and the feeling of the world stopping just for this moment. Dean's hips are shifting, grinding up against his and Cas feels like he barely has the self-control to get their underwear off.

Dean is too far gone to be of much help. It's gratifying in a way that Cas never thought possible, and he wishes he'd thought about this sooner—Cas and Dean pressed together, sweaty and writhing, something more than friendship but not altogether different.

"Cas," he grounds out. And Cas nods, though he doesn't know if he's agreeing to anything specific or the heat of the moment in general—it doesn't matter anyway; he has no desire to deny Dean anything.

There's something almost tender in the way Dean's spit-slick hand wraps around his cock. Cas jerks, moans, and his eyes fall close as he leans forward, shifting his weight to his elbows. He whispers Dean's name because he can't seem to manage much more than that at the moment. He tries to tell Dean he doesn't have condoms and he doesn't have lubricant and—but it's fine because Dean just closes his mouth over Cas' and keeps stroking him, hard but unhurried. He wonders if this is the way Dean likes it, the way Dean touches himself, and he thinks he could get used to it and—"_Oh._" It's soft, breathy, and pressed into the heat of Dean's mouth.

Cas shifts and his cock slides against Dean's and something tightens in his chest at the needy sound Dean makes. He tangles his fingers with Dean's, guiding their hands around both their cocks, slippery and swollen and—Cas bites off a moan as they move together.

When he comes, it's with a soft exhalation of Dean's name and it feels like the whole world has just whipped through him. He waits until Dean has joined the post-orgasm haze to collapse on top of him, their chests heaving.

Dean looks like he's about to use the edge of Cas' sheet to clean them off, so Cas kisses him sloppily, then once again chastely before getting up and making his way to the bathroom. He comes back with a warm, wet washcloth and finds Dean already dozing off, skin still flushed with effort and arousal and climax.

He doesn't wake up when Cas touches the washcloth to the planes of his stomach. Later on, he'll learn all the lines and curves of Dean's body, inside and out.

For now, he lies next to Dean and falls asleep to the sound and feel of Dean's breath on his shoulder.

* * *

Life isn't a romantic comedy so he doesn't drop out of school to be with Dean, and Dean doesn't immediately give up his life to move to Illinois.

But they make it work because that's the only option.

No one seems overly surprised when the announcement that Dean and Cas are a couple—more or less—is made. Sam congratulates them, his girlfriend laughs merrily, and Dean's father just nods and offers them beers when Dean demands they visit Kansas.

Cas accepts one and Dean's arm winds around his waist.

He catalogues the freckles on the right side of Dean's face.

* * *

He visits his sister in Prague.

It's just as horrible as he'd expected it to be. Hester is demanding and not at all empathetic—and her boyfriend always looks like he wants to beat Cas to a pulp.

Still, he's glad he went, if only for the sake of knowing that he didn't need to.

She kisses his cheek at the airport. "Don't come back, Cas," she says—and she means it, he can tell, but it's not rude and even though she's not great, she's not their father.

It's just an acknowledgement of everything they both already know. And she calls him Cas, and he promises he won't and they'll just stick to occasional phone calls.

"Take care of that friend of yours," she says.

"I will." He nods at her and then he's walking away and he's steps closer to getting back to the US and to meeting Dean in Boston for the weekend.

* * *

He's sitting on the floor between Dean's legs, back flush against Dean's chest when Dean says, "My mom—"

He breaks off and Cas waits patiently—and if Dean asked, he knows he'd wait forever. Some might call it pathetic, but it's not. Dean doesn't validate his existence, isn't something he clings to just so he has something to convince himself it's worth getting up in the morning. Dean is his best friend and—the term significant other comes to mind. But that is tiny, motionless, compared to what Dean is. All the prescribed terms seem juvenile or just not enough.

Mostly the labels don't matter. Cas and Dean don't need them, but sometimes other people do—even though it's generally not their business.

He looks up and Dean looks down, kisses the corner of Cas' mouth, and continues talking. "My mom always said one day you and me would figure our shit out and that she just hoped she lived long enough to see it."

Cas turns to face him, pressing a hand to the side of Dean's neck. "It's just that the last part was supposed to be a joke," Dean finishes, and he doesn't even attempt to hide the emotion in his voice.

"I wish I'd known her better," Cas says and Dean gives him an appreciative smile.

"Yeah, she always liked you," Dean tells him. "Always said you were better than any of my other friends. I guess she meant it in about every way possible. Guess she was right too," he adds, kissing Cas again.

And Cas is glad that she was. And he'll never know what it's like to have a mother like her, but he likes the idea she would have accepted him into her family were she still alive.

"Are you tired?" he asks.

Dean shakes his head in the way that means _to the bone, but I'm gonna deny it anyway._

So Cas lets it go and leans back against Dean, the rise and fall of his chest rhythmic and soft.

* * *

_If they don't drive ya crazy, Cas, they aren't really your family._

Dean drives him crazy in about every way one can imagine—and Dean is family, more so than anyone, even his blood. Especially his blood.

So Cas resigns himself to the sound of Dean snoring next to him and to the fact that Dean will use up all the hot water in the shower in the morning—and about a million other things.

All in all, he thinks, he likes being driven crazy.

* * *

**A/N II:** thanks for reading.


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